Treading on Thin Ground
by Mybigimagination
Summary: Irene Adler is recruited by Moriarty to gain information on Sherlock Holmes and to solve a murder case, but it's not long before she realises that she might be next...
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, this is my first fic on here! After watching the brilliant Sherlock on TV, I decided to write my own fic and bring in the great Irene Adler and make her developed - I mean, she was only in one story and it's not like she said or did much. I hope I've made her believable as a character, though she is not quite fleshed out yet, but it's hard in the first chapter when I'm establishing the story line instead. I hope you'll enjoy and please review if you liked it or have any suggestions and constructive criticism!**

She was standing, half-scared, half-confident, in a darkened, deserted car park. It hadn't been used for years by the looks of it; she could see a few rats scurrying along by the corners and she could hear the smashed window frames groaning as the wind rushed past them. It was cold, the middle of March, and she hugged her arms around her body as she shivered slightly. Her heavy bag of books and unfinished essays sat by her feet - she didn't have the strength to carry it. She took one look at her watch and called out impatiently.

"Mr Moriarty?"

There was a long, chilling silence. She called out again.

"Look, I haven't got long. I need to get back…"

There. She saw him. Well, his silhouette and his shadow on the floor. He was far from her, yet she knew it was him. He always turned up like that, almost unnoticed but dramatic, just like his persona.

"Ah, Miss Adler. Early today, aren't you?" She shuddered at his sneering voice. It was so cold, so heartless.

"No." She said defensively, "I'm right on time. Eight in the evening, just like you said." Moriarty was nearing her, taking slow but confident footsteps, each one growing louder and louder. She could see his face now. A kind, nice-looking face, but his character did not suit it. He was far from kind, "What did you want this time?"

"I need some information."

"Can you not get it yourself?" She answered back quickly. Moriarty laughed mockingly and she stopped eye-contact. She knew he had already won, but she still continued. "Sir, you have eyes and ears everywhere. Why me?"

He came up close to her, but she backed away. Grabbing her hand forcefully, he whispered in her ear, "I like you Irene."

"That's not a very good reason." She whispered back mockingly. She closed her eyes at the sound of his low, patronizing laugh.

"Everyone knows you're the best."

"I don't think flattery works, you know." Again, he laughed, and she turned her head away from him, not wishing to be there any longer than she had to.

"How much do you want?" The money bribe. _Tempting, _she thought.

"How much are you willing to give me?" He smiled. He was getting there.

"Oh, I don't know, would a couple of thousand do the trick?" He let her think for a few moments. The idea of money for a university student was like giving food to the homeless. They _loved_ it. Moriarty saw Irene less tense now, and he knew she had taken the offer. She didn't even have to say anything. "I think you'll like this person, Irene. He's on the same level as us," He smirked and added, "Intellectually, of course."

"And why information? If he's, as you say, on the same level as us, then why do you need me to get information from him?"

He sighed impatiently. "Irene, you know, for someone so bright, I don't know how you can overlook the obvious sometimes." Irene gave him an icy look. She hated being undermined. Especially by _him_. "We work in different circles - "

She cut him off, "Oh, you mean, you're enemies?"

"Yes, I suppose you could put it that way!" Moriarty looked rather pleased at the prospect of having an enemy as clever (or almost) as him. He quickly snapped back into his serious mode though, much to Irene's displeasure. "His name is Sherlock Holmes. He's a consulting detective - "

"A consulting detective?" She looked at him quizzically, yet sarcastically at the same time. She'd never heard of such a profession before.

"Don't interrupt, Irene. You know what happens to people who interrupt me." She didn't, but she could take a guess and it would probably be right. Moriarty carried on, "He is a consulting detective and often works with the police, but only on cases that are out of the ordinary. He likes a challenge, a good puzzle. He finds them fun. A bit like me, I suppose. I have a client," Irene rolled her eyes. That's how Moriarty worked. People came to him, the criminal mastermind, to 'get rid of people' they didn't like, "A man who's on the list to gain quite a large inheritance. But not first on that list." Irene knew exactly what this was coming to, but why did she have to be involved?

"So, basically, he wants you to get rid of their rich, dying parent or grandparent or cousin or great-aunt _and _everyone else who's set to receive inheritance from this person so he can get it instead." She laughed, despite the sinister situation she was in, "This is all very murder-mystery, isn't it? Don't you think someone might get a _little_ suspicious?"

"Yes. But only Sherlock Holmes. He loves a good murder. He'll be drawn to it when he sees the deaths in the paper," Moriarty saw doubt on her face, "But don't worry, Irene, I'll make it a fun set of murders. A challenging set of murders. He won't know what's hit him."

"Excuse me, Sir, but what exactly do I have to do with all of this?" She didn't get it. Yes, this Sherlock Holmes person will investigate Moriarty's impossible murders, but why did she need to be involved? Did she really need to be dragged over to a deserted car park on the outskirts of central London?

"I like to see how he's doing. I'd like to see how much of a challenge it is for him. Irene, last time I set him some challenges, I never got to see how he did it. Which is a shame, I think. I need you to watch him, get to know him, get him to open up to you." He could tell she wasn't convinced, and he sighed heavily, "Look, you get me information on Sherlock Holmes, I'll be happy and I'll give you money. Got it?"

She nodded cautiously and Moriarty smiled.

"Good!" He clapped his hands together and gave her a big smile, "I must warn you that he likes to, er, what's the word?" Irene stared blankly at him as he struggled for the right wording, "Deduce. That's the word. He likes to deduce people, so don't let him know anything we don't want him to know."

"And where do you expect me to find this man then?" He seemed to have told her every detail but that.

"221b Baker Street. I'll leave you to work out how you'll meet him inconspicuously."

"Great. Thanks." Irene muttered under her breath coldly. She was ready to leave and her hand was already reaching for her bag.

"Oh, and his friend, John Watson. Don't bother with him. He won't give you any worthwhile information. He lives with Holmes, and he seems to like getting involved in Holmes' cases, but he's pretty useless." Irene nodded, "You can go now."

Irene grabbed her bag and turned, her footsteps echoing throughout the car park. It was too cold to be going to Baker Street today; she would sleep on it and visit the mysterious Sherlock Holmes tomorrow. Moriarty was far away now, but she heard him shout out to her.

"Don't get too attached!"

**I hope you enjoyed reading! Hopefully I'll update in the next few days if people liked the start!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to those of you who have read, and also to those who took the time to review! It makes my day! I hope that you'll continue to enjoy it and hopefully I'll be able to flesh out the characters a bit more, especially Irene, who (in my mind) deserves it. John will eventually make an appearance, probably in the next few chapters. **

Sherlock Holmes was bored. Again. Mrs Hudson had already had a word with him about the cleaver in the door and the array or human organs in the freezer, which he had said were for an experiment and came from a pig in the butchers up the road. But not even that, or a new experiment on the time taken for human hair to disintegrate in an oven, could keep him from being bored. He thought about firing at the wall with his gun again, not that Mrs Hudson would be pleased, but no, that was _boring._ His skull was still confiscated, with no word from his landlady that he would be getting it back any time soon. No cases. No call from Mycroft to say that there was another murder in a supermarket. John was out with Sarah, again. Mrs Hudson was goodness knows where _and_ in a bad mood with him. Absolutely nothing.

The doorbell rang.

Sherlock shot up from where he lay on the sofa, procrastinating for at least half an hour. Not that the doorbell ringing was exciting. It was probably John, locked out because he had forgotten his keys, or a salesman wanting him to buy the latest set of kitchen utensils…

He was down in the hall know, and ready to open the door. The bell rang again. Obviously John, impatient as usual.

Wrong.

"Yes?" He answered, bored, looking at the caller. A young woman, about 20-ish. Her face was round, almost like a child's yet there was a wisdom about her that made him think otherwise. Small in stature with long, slightly wild, auburn hair. Her dark eyes were bright and shaped like round almonds, but dark circles underneath stopped them from really shining.

"Sherlock Holmes?" She asked. There was a slight hint of an American accent, but only slightly.

"That's me." Maybe it was another case. A murder hopefully. God, he yearned for a good murder. It had been far too long. Almost two days now.

Irene looked up at the man. He was tall - much taller than her - with a dark mop of hair, an angular face and cold, grey eyes making him look somewhat cruel. For all she knew, he could be. Mr Moriarty hadn't told her much. She had her story and background all made up, and, though she had failed her drama GCSE miserably, she was going to make an effort to sound fairly believable.

"Mr Holmes," She sobbed, failing to muster up any tears at all, but she kept going, "My great-aunt Mabel, died last week, and I - I can't help but think… I can't help but think she was murdered!" She held her head in her hands, faking her best cry.

"Liar." He drawled, uninterested. Irene's head snapped up. Was she really that bad an actress?

"_What?"_

"Your great-aunt hasn't just died. Your accent has a hint of American, but not much. So I assume you were born in America but moved to England just a few years after. So, I find it very unlikely that you have any extended family living in this country. They're more likely to be living in America and even then, you're probably not close to them because you see them only rarely or not at all. So, I find it very unbelievable that you're crying for an old great-aunt, plus the fact that your acting skills are pretty poor. There are no signs on your face that a member of your family has died recently. Yes, there _are _dark circles under your eyes, but I assume that's because you're a university student - judging by your age - who is having either nightmares or an over-active social life. Most likely nightmares as I can tell by your heaving bag, presumably filled with books for university, that you have no time for a social life. University College London maybe? That's the nearest from here, is it not?" Irene nodded cautiously. After Moriarty's warning and scouring his website late last night, she had prepared herself for something impressive but she hadn't thought she'd be _that_ impressed. He continued his deduction skills, "You're a musician of some sort - "

"How on _earth_ do you know that?" Irene replied suspiciously, her eyes narrowing. His previous attempts at deduction were impressive, but judging that she was a musician was _impossible!_

"There are a few pages of sheet music sticking out your bag." She looked over her shoulder at the bag and saw the untidy, crumpled up bits of music sticking out the side. _Wow, he was really very good… _"Let me see. You're most likely a university student studying music. Some kind of stringed instrument perhaps? The music is in alto clef." He seemed to be quite enjoying himself being clever and outwitting people. _Pity he was wrong, _she thought.

"No." She replied smugly.

"No?" His smiled had vanished. Obviously he was someone who hated being wrong, "Which instrument then?"

"Piano, mainly. But I sing a lot too. That's my music theory work. And I'm not studying music at university; that's just a hobby. I'm a History student actually. University College London doesn't offer Music on their list of courses."

He ignored her comments on her university and grabbed one of her hands, examining it from a distance. "Your hands are very small for a pianists." He was a little sceptical, she could see.

"Doesn't mean I can't play."

Irene heard him mutter something unintelligible under his breath.

"I'll show you sometime then."

"Hmph." He sneered, backing up and ready to shut the door on his face, "Look, Miss -"

"Irene Adler."

"Miss Adler, I'm obviously very flattered to hear that you like my work -" She cut him off.

"I said nothing about liking your work at all, Sir." She smirked.

"You have seen my website, I assume?"

"Yes." Irene had spent last night reading through his impossible cases. It was interesting, she had to admit that, but she wasn't overly convinced. She remembered that she had thought him an arrogant, pompous man just by the way he described solving the cases. So self-assured.

"And did you like it?" She could see his smile coming through now. His work obviously meant a lot to him.

"I thought it was pretty mediocre, you know," She toyed with him, gleefully enjoying the smile vanishing from his face, "Nothing special."

"Then, can I ask why you're here?" He grumbled, kicking the door frame with his foot like a bored teenager.

"I actually do have a case for you. Just that it was someone else's great-aunt who died. Not mine at all. Thought you might be up to the job. The police don't seem to think much about it."

Sherlock's face lit up. Not by a smile, but by his eyes, Irene saw. They were brighter and he now no longer looked bored. Ecstatic, almost. He stepped back from the doorway to allow her access to the building.

"Come in, Miss Adler."

**By the way, this isn't going to be a Sherlock/Irene pairing story. Not romance anyway. More of a sweet friendship or a brother/sister or father/daughter relationship (haven't quite decided yet - just going to wait a see how it goes!). I thought it'd be refreshing not to have full blown romance between the two. To me, the relationship between Irene and Sherlock is about intellect instead. Hope you enjoyed!**


	3. Chapter 3

The room was an absolute mess. Books thrown around in every corner, on the floor, on the chairs. There were documents of old cases covering the table and John's laptop was on - Sherlock had been using it again (too much bother going upstairs to his computer. Wasted too much time when he could take just a minute to work out his friend's password). A USB stick lay next to the laptop. In the kitchen area there was an experiment going on with flasks and beakers filled with coloured chemicals and stained teeth in a Petri dish by a well-used microscope. The fridge was open by accident, cooling the room, but was empty. No one had been shopping for days now as John had taken to eating with Sarah most nights and Mrs Hudson had refused to pick up any groceries since the incident with the head in the fridge. _Most unfortunate for her to find it in there_, thought Sherlock. A long, navy coat with red buttonholes and a scarf were the only things where they were supposed to be; the coat hook.

"Take a seat," He gestured to Irene, as he threw tatty books into cardboard box. All the chairs were covered in files, sheets of paper and maps - except one which Irene avoided, for it was covered in a sticky substance that she'd rather not go near. As she moved the papers off a comfy-looking armchair, she took note of what they were about. Looked like newspaper clippings with handwritten notes - presumably Sherlock's - written around the edges. The heading of the clipping at the top of the pile read **STUDENT MURDERED BY MASKED KILLER** and written in the top left-hand corner was the familiar name, _Moriarty,_ with a bold question mark beside it.

"So, let's start with the basics. Who's been murdered?" He asked over his shoulder, continuing to tidy up as best as he could without apologising.

Irene took a file out of her bag, filled with notes which had been dropped off at her house late last night by one of Moriarty's other associates stating the information of his first murder. She had briefly flicked through it in the cab on her way to Baker Street so she knew the basics. The document was handed to Sherlock as she told him what had happened. He silently skimmed through it as she spoke.

"Mabel Johnson died five days ago in her home in Kensington. Her daughter-in-law, Isabelle Johnson found her lying dead in her room. There were no signs of suicide, no sign of a note, just traces of a liquid that the police presumed was water. The conclusion they came to was that Mrs Johnson had died of old-age, she was eighty-four and had numerous health problems.

"And why is that going to be an interesting case for me to work on, Miss Adler?" Although he was longing for a murder, this didn't seem the most convincing or interesting one, "I assume there is no money involved, seeing as you seem to have picked up this case on your own."

"Please, just call me Irene. Miss Adler seems to formal for my likings," She continued, "I believed that you might overlook the lack of payment,. The suspicious thing is that drew me towards this seemingly normal death was that Mrs Johnson has a rather large fortune which had been long talked about within the family; and I assume that they all wanted the money for themselves. Her son, Samuel, husband to Isabelle Johnson, also went missing shortly after his beloved mother's death. He was first in line to receive her fortune. A few days on, campers in Dorset found a burnt out car - the same one as Samuel Johnson's. There was a burnt body which was later confirmed to be his. I am positive we're dealing with a murder here, but I understand if you're too busy or it's not appealing."

Sherlock changed the subject within seconds, startling Irene, "You're a university student?"

"Yes."

"Studying History and spending every minute of your spare time completing and perfecting your work? You're a perfectionist, I can tell."

"Yes, Sir."

"Then why are you here telling me about a murder - which I can tell doesn't interest you as much as your History, or your music - when you'd rather be completing your essay on 18th Century France?" _Oh dear, _she thought. His deduction skills hadn't seemed too bad to handle at first, but now it was like he was reading her mind. Irene thought as quick as she could, but it was a pathetic excuse and an unbelievable one, too.

"One is allowed to have free time when she wishes."

Clichéd as it was, the door opened behind her, saving her - for now, that is - from certain scrutiny. She looked over her shoulder. The man who had walked in was an average height, a few years older than Sherlock Holmes and rather more well-built compared to the lean detective. He had not noticed her, instead he eyed up the door.

"Mrs Hudson is not going to be happy about this, Sherlock," He pulled the cleaver out of the door with strained effort and put it down on a nearby table," She'll put it on the rent again. Oh, hello. We haven't met before, I don't think. John Watson." He held out his hand and she took it confidently.

Sherlock beat her to it to introduce his visitor, "John, this is Irene Adler. She has a new case for me."

"Oh, thank goodness for that. I swear Sherlock, if you get bored one more time and wreck this flat again, I am going."

"Going where exactly?" He seemed uninterested, like it was never going to happen.

"Anywhere. Away from here. I'll move in with Sarah or something."

"Sarah doesn't want you to move in just yet. I can tell by her face when she sees you and her body is positioned quite a way from you as if she's not ready for a commitment like that." John's face turned sour at the remark and he stood up taller to look more confident.

"Shut up, Sherlock. Anyone would think you're jealous."

"Not jealous, just merely evaluating the situations before me." Sherlock gave a brief smile at his friend, but it did not raise John's mood.

"She's probably still scared of us since the first date you ruined."

Irene's head moved from John to Sherlock, as if she was watching the ball in a tennis match. Moriarty had told her to ignore the former, but she quite enjoyed hearing them bicker like children. It was like being at home again…

"Sorry, Irene. John's just leaving."

"No I'm not." He said defensively.

"We're out of food. You can use my card again. It's over on the kitchen table." Irene couldn't quite believe how open he was being about his credit cards. She wouldn't even dream of letting her mother use her card, let alone a flatmate!

"I can't find it, Sherlock. Find Mrs Hudson. I'm sure she'll be going to the shops sometime soon." John was nearing the other chair, ready to sit down and read the paper in silence.

"I would, but she keeps on telling me she's not my housekeeper. Can't understand why. It's in between the Petri dish and the Iodine." John sighed, turned around and picked the card up from the cluttered kitchen table, shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans and walked out.

"Bye, Irene. Nice to meet you. Might see you soon."

"She will probably still be here by the time you get back, John. I wouldn't say your farewells just yet." But his friend had already left. They both heard the door slam shut behind him and they turned toward each other. Irene looked at Sherlock nervously. He hadn't forgotten the brief suspicious conversation that had occurred.

"Where are the bodies being kept at the moment?" He asked, grabbing his coat, gloves and scarf.

"St Bartholomew's. They'll be gone tomorrow though. The family want the funeral sooner rather than later and the forensics team have done all they can."

He grinned, "My favourite place. We'll get a cab there now" Irene stood up as he wandered out of the door, not noticing the USB stick that she had picked up and stuffed into her coat pocket.

**I had written more of this chapter, but it was getting too long so I decided to split it up into two chapters instead. The next chapter will feature Molly and more John, plus some flashbacks as to how Irene met Moriarty. Thanks for reading and please review if you have any thoughts or constructive criticism to share - it's very useful!  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry, it's a long chapter today. Just couldn't find a good place to split it in half! I also apologise for the lack of John; I have made a personal reminder to add him in more! The paragraphs in italics are for the flashbacks. Hope they're not too confusing. Please review if you want to share your thoughts - I love receiving them!**

It was silent in the taxi. Both Irene and Sherlock sat in complete silence with only the sound of the engine for company. There were a few quick glances at each other, and a fair few turns of the head when one of them realised the other was watching them. Irene felt the USB stick she had 'borrowed' in her pocket and she looked at her lap guiltily. Stealing was not something she wanted to do, nor was she proud of it. Moriarty had her wrapped round his finger and there were no signs of him letting her go.

* * *

_She had first met Moriarty on a Friday night, just one month ago. A friend of Irene's, Louise Pennington, had persuaded her to go for a few drinks in a pub down by Russell Square and she had agreed reluctantly. She was already a little behind on her dissertation on Hitler's rise to power, but it was her conscience that told her that she needed to get some sort of social life. She didn't have many friends, only those who had the patience to deal with her anti-social behaviour. Branded a workaholic at school, she was used to the isolation and it didn't bother her. She was not dependent on people though, nor was she that shy. She could be confident if she ever wanted to, but it was university and work on her mind, day and night, closely followed by music and then last, and certainly least, her friends and family._

"_Irene, what do you want to drink?" Louise had asked her loudly at the bar. The music was uncomfortably loud, and Irene had to strain her ears to hear her. _

"_Erm. Water please?" She yelled, but Louise hadn't listened. One pint of beer was placed before her and she sipped slowly as her other friends beckoned her towards a table. Irene looked at her watch - nine o'clock - as she yawned. She would rather be tucked up in bed now; nightmares, that she would rather not think about, had been keeping her awake for the past few nights. _

"_Hi," She waved at the group of friends as she perched herself on the end seat. Being on the end would mean they wouldn't notice her much. Just what she wanted. She had no desire to be involved in discussions on the latest celebrities and it would probably mean she'd be able to escape, unnoticed, back to her room in the university's halls. _

_Irene sat, ignored by everyone, for at least half an hour. She pleased herself by watching the silly, drunk people go up to the karaoke machine and sing their lungs out on a cheesy pop song that was released twenty years ago. The beer was finished now and she tapped her fingers around the edge of the glass, bored._

"_Hello," A hand came into her view and she shook it gingerly, "My name's Jim Moriarty." _

"_Hi. I'm Irene Adler."_

"_You want another drink, Irene?" Jim asked, gesturing at her empty beer glass. He had a soft sounding voice and Irene noticed that he had an Irish accent. _

"_I wouldn't say no," She smiled, grateful. Her 'friends' hadn't even noticed her new admirer and she followed him over to the bar instead. Another beer was handed other to her and she murmured her thanks to the man. He wasn't as young as she was, but not too bad looking. He acted nicely though; confident and gentlemanly._

"_You're a student?" _

"_Yes. University College London. I'm studying History."_

"_Wow. Cool." It was only later that she realised he was not being sincere. Moriarty couldn't care less.

* * *

_

Sherlock sat, silently texting John on the way to the hospital.

_Bart's Hospital when convenient._

_SH_

He sighed. No doubt he would have to contend with Molly again, but at least she hadn't been trying so hard since her bad experience with Moriarty. Shame it hadn't worked out, but he supposed dating a criminal mastermind wasn't the best thing to do with your life. From the corner of his eye he could see his companion staring out of the window for a good few minutes, but her mind was elsewhere.

* * *

_Irene had to admit that she was more than a little drunk. She had spent the past ten minutes using the karaoke machine, blurting out cheesy pop songs at the top of her lungs. Not a bad singer when sober, but the alcohol slurred her words a little. Jim Moriarty sat watching intently with a strange smile on his face. She was just what he needed. For half an hour, Irene Adler had told him her whole life story from her first memory to her last. She was confident in herself and clever, but not as clever as to realise that he was manipulating her. Well, not in the state she was in at the moment. But that was all the time Moriarty had needed. Half an hour with a drunken young woman in a pub. Half an hour to influence and control her. Half an hour to _use _her._

_

* * *

_

They had arrived at the hospital already and Irene ran to catch up with Sherlock's long strides to the mortuary. Is was quiet today, strange for a Saturday. It was not late, nor was it early, and there was an eerie silence in the corridors. It was Irene's first time in the hospital and it was quite a grand building for such a morbid place. The walls were painted in light greens and whites, enough to give even the healthiest person a headache after a while. Sherlock flew along the corridors, his long, navy coat sweeping out behind him. Irene, on the other time, was having a hard time trying to keep up.

"Can you slow down, please?"

"There's no time for slowing down? Would you slow down if you had a murder to contend with?"

"I _do _have a murder to contend with. Both of us do. Look, slow down, Holmes!" He frowned at the name. He wasn't quite used to the idea of people calling him by his surname only. Sherlock would do. He'd have to start calling her 'Adler' instead. Irene continued, ignoring the strange look on his face, "The bodies aren't going anywhere - they're dead!"

He succumbed to her whining and came to, or what seemed like, almost a standstill. Irene smiled, happy with her progress. They turned the corner and came to the mortuary. Sherlock pushed open the door eagerly, clapping his hands together.

"Ah, Molly," He startled the mousy girl but she looked pleased to see him. She stopped what she was doing immediately and rushed over to them, well-trained indeed. "Bodies please. What are their names, Adler?"

"Mabel Johnson and Samuel Johnson."

"And who's this?" Molly tried her best to sound casual, but couldn't quite hide her feeling of jealousy. She grabbed a few papers from a filing cabinet.

"Molly, this is Irene Adler, a 'friend'." He didn't sound convinced, "Adler, this is Molly. She works at the mortuary."

"No. Really? I'd never have guessed," She muttered sarcastically, but loud enough for them all to hear. She shook Molly's hand. It was timid and weak compared to hers and Molly shied away quickly.

"This way," Molly gestured and they followed her to the bodies.

* * *

_Irene had felt - at that eventful time at the pub - that she was indeed in love. With Jim Moriarty. The guy she had met just an hour ago. She had never been in love before, and, although she didn't really understand how it felt to be in love with someone, the influence of drink took hold of her and told her she was. Her friends had thought it a breakthrough that she was doing something 'normal' for once. Moriarty thought it pure luck. She kissed him for what seemed like forever, as passionately as she could. He kissed her back, pleased with his progress.

* * *

_

One body looked utterly at peace. The other was like an image from a horror film. The skin was darkened by the burns; some of the limbs had even disintegrated in the burning car. The face was almost unrecognisable, but, if Irene held the one photo she had of Samuel Johnson, she could just make out the long, crooked nose and the small mouth.

"Definitely a murder." Molly said, breaking the silence.

"Not necessarily," Irene replied back. Sherlock ignored both, "Samuel Johnson was a man very much attached to his mother. It is possible that he could not cope with the death of his mother and decided to end his own life. But the fact that he's so badly burnt could possibly mean that he wanted it to look like a murder. I mean, who burns themselves in a car as a way of suicide? It's more usual for someone to jump off a cliff or take an overdose of medicine. Perhaps he wasn't on good terms with another member of the family. Perhaps someone else wanted the inheritance too and Samuel wanted to stop him by framing him as a murderer." Molly fell silent. Sherlock looked up and Irene smiled back. In Moriarty's notes - which she had kept safe in her bag away from Sherlock - she was to lead the consulting detective in the opposite direction as much as possible, just to see how he coped.

"You seem to like changing you mind, Adler. At my flat," Molly looked most put-out by the fact that Irene had been in his home, "you said you were positive we were dealing with a murder." He was suspicious again and Irene thought on her feet quickly.

"Oh, am I not allowed to throw other suggestions in the pool of thought?" She said, eyebrows raised.

"Of course, Adler, just don't interrupt _mine _while I'm thinking," He replied through gritted teeth. The door opened in front of them, "John, there you are, I was beginning to think you'd ignored my text. Take a look at this."

"Nasty. Third degree burns all over. Must have died within a few minutes. How did this one die?" Sherlock handed the doctor Irene's - or rather Moriarty's - notes on the case, "Oh, murder then."

"The question is, who murdered him?" Sherlock had finished his evaluation and moved on to the peaceful old lady, "Molly, grab me a sample of his fingernails please." Molly nodded and scuttled off.

"Looks like old age to me," John sighed, rubbing his hands over his tired face. He had had a long day and just wanted to be back at the flat watching the telly until he got bored.

"No, it doesn't. Adler, evaluate."

"She's old," She started, coming to a halt. Sherlock pressed her to carry on. Irene checked everywhere for any signs. Moriarty had not told her how she died, so at least she could have a bit of fun guessing. It was not everyday she examined dead bodies. There, she saw it! "There's a small puncture on the left of her neck."

"Excellent, Adler. You're learning." Molly had returned with his samples, "Thank you Molly. Hair different again?"

She blushed and nodded.

"Hmm, no I still prefer it the usual way."

"Oh."

Irene watched, half-amused at the woman, half-sorry for her. It was obvious to a blind man that he was running rings around her. She almost knew the feeling.

* * *

"_I want you to do something for me," Jim Moriarty had said to her as they wandered back to her room in the university's halls. _

"_Anything," She hated how it sounded, but she was drunk, she was in 'love'. She didn't care._

"_Promise me you'll do everything I ever ask of you."_

"_I promise."

* * *

_

Irene shuddered. How silly and stupid she had been. If only she hadn't drunk as much that night. Then she could have at least thought through her options. She wouldn't even be here, surrounded by a strange man, a mousy girl, a doctor and two dead bodies. She almost laughed at how stupid the situation sounded. Her thoughts subsided when she head her phone.

_Russell Square Gdns. 2 hours._

_Jim._

"Anything important, Adler?" Irene looked up at her phone, and shook her head.

"Nothing that can't wait."

**Now, I know Irene isn't exactly outsmarting Sherlock yet, but she will**** (and maybe even a certain villain too...)****, just bear with me. It's all happening for a reason! I'm just _trying_ to establish my characters first and I promise you that she will redeem herself and be, er, better! **


	5. Chapter 5

Russell Square Gardens were unusually quiet for a Friday evening. It was cool, but not too cold, and there was a fresh breeze coming from the north. Irene had parked herself on a bench at the centre of the beautifully kept gardens and watched the trees and the flowers moving gracefully in the breeze. It wasn't long until her conspirer sat next to her casually, as if he was just a normal person and not a criminal.

"And how did you find my good friend, Sherlock Holmes, then?" He asked her, his voice as soft as the night they met. It was like how he used to be and she smiled at the brief memory. It was not to last much longer.

"He was," Irene searched for the right word, "not as I had expected. A bit pompous, arrogant and cold."

"Not too attached then?" She turned and looked to him as to what he meant.

"I could easily forget him," Irene replied indifferently. She knew she could not, for he was so bizarre and interesting. He was even similar to Moriarty, in a small way.

"Good. I don't plan on keeping him around much longer." Moriarty smiled. She turned away; she couldn't look at his heartless eyes.

"Do you have something for me, Irene?"

She was very close to shaking her head, but his mind would know if she were lying. The USB stick was burning in her coat pocket as she drew it out. She had been dying to look through the contents before Moriarty, but there had been no time having just got back from Baker Street.

"Yes."

"Then let me have it." His eyes lit up as he saw the stick. Irene hesitated at first, but the stick soon found itself into Moriarty's grasp. "Thank you."

"Is he doing well?"

"Well, he has seen the puncture wound in the old lady's neck. Nothing more, I don't think."

"Good. It won't take him long to work out though, if he hasn't already. It's a little similar to another case he's done in the past."

"Then why do it?" Irene asked, baffled.

"Because I'm bored, and I'm pretty certain he's bored. Keeps us entertained for a few days, anyway. Then we go back to being bored and start all over again."

"I don't _get _you. Why not get a job? Why not work? Why not try to restrain yourself from killing people? You know I don't like it."

"What? And sit around writing essays on things that happened in the past? I don't think so, Irene."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. One afraid to speak, the other one simply not bothered by the former. Irene checked her watch, 20:13. It had been a long day…

"Right, just tell me what I need to do next and I'll be off."

He looked disappointed, "Oh, I thought you might like to go to the pub and maybe have an early night." She was sick of his toying with her.

"Oh, be quiet. I know you couldn't care less. I already found that out ago." It had been a month ago when he told her he didn't care, and that he was a criminal, and that she wasn't going to get rid of him easily… She shuddered. How stupid can one person be?

He gave up, "Get under Sherlock's skin. _Really_ annoy him."

"Why?" Irene saw no point. She was gaining information on how he worked out the puzzling crimes. Not to irritate him!

"Because I'm bored, Irene."

And with that, she grabbed her bag and stormed out of the gardens, Moriarty smirking as she did so. Soon she would be no use to him. Soon he would eliminate her.

* * *

"Have you worked it out? How did the old lady die?" The doctor asked the detective, throwing himself into the armchair and picking up a magazine.

"It's simple. I've had a case like this one before. Highly unoriginal."

"Ok, then tell me what happened?" John sighed.

"Have you not worked it out yet?" Sherlock asked, but received a puzzled look back, "Oh, very well then. Mabel Johnson had a large amount of money in her bank account. Her family knew about this and some were looking forward to her death. So forward to it, that they wanted to end her life sooner."

"So, a murder?"

"Yes, exactly," He continued as if he had never been interrupted, "Mabel Johnson was shot with a poisoned dark - a tiny one which I found when we examined her body. It's easy to miss to the untrained eye - "

"Of course," John muttered through gritted teeth. He enjoyed the company of his friend sometimes, but occasionally, he could be an arrogant man.

Sherlock continued, "And the puncture is small and easy to mistake as an insect bite. I took a sample of skin from the neck and it had been infected by the poison. She would have died quickly and probably quite painfully."

John winced, he always hated hearing a grisly murder, especially then Sherlock told him of it in an uninterested tone. He just didn't care sometimes, "And what about the man? Murder or suicide?"

"Murder, of course. He would have been the first to revieve the money as he was her son. He was quite attached to her and was probably going through serious depression after her death, so the murderer made it look like he had burnt himself."

"But it could have been a suicide if he was distraught by his mother's death," John started, but Sherlock's look stopped him. "Ok, who was the murderer?"

"I'd personally question the wife of Samuel Johnson," He grinned and sat down at his desk. "John, have you seen my USB stick? It was on the desk before I left for the hospital." Sherlock threw the documents around the desk, finally shoving them all off. He had been looking for at least two minutes now, and he usually found what he was after in one. John was sitting reading the paper, paying no attention to his friend's apparent distress.

"Then it's probably still there. Look under the papers." He hadn't even looked up.

"But it's _not_ there! Look yourself!" It was like dealing with a three-year old. John shook his head. He was having none of his childish excuses.

"It's your mess, Sherlock. Maybe it fell off."

"No, it couldn't have fallen off, it was nowhere near the edge. Have you taken it?" John scoffed and threw the newspaper to one side, standing up.

"No," He replied adamantly. "Why on Earth would I take it? I don't go near you stuff. Shame you won't leave mine alone though," He added, "Another break in maybe? Wouldn't be the first. What about your brother?"

"He wouldn't have any use for that stuff." Sherlock muttered, throwing the untidy documents back onto the desk.

"What was on it?" John raised an eyebrow. Probably just long, boring documents on deduction and mystery that no sane person would want to go rifling through.

"Personal stuff."

"You? Personal stuff?" John laughed mockingly, "Since when?" Sherlock ignored him and paced round the room.

"Who else has been here lately?" He wasn't asking John. He was asking himself, "Mrs Hudson? No, no, she wouldn't want a USB stick. Her computer doesn't even work properly. Sarah was here last night -"

John interrupted quickly. "Oh, come on, Sherlock! She has no use of your possessions! In fact, no one in their right might does!"

"Someone might."

"That Irene girl, she was here." Sherlock looked up quickly as if he had thought of her instead of his friend. He had completely forgotten about her for a moment.

"Yes…"

"Then what about her? Not sure what she'd need it for, but she's more likely than my girlfriend. You don't even know her that well! How many hours have you known her - five, six, seven hours? Who knows what she could be planning."

"You've been watching too much television, by the looks of it. It's not _her." _He had stopped pacing but was still deep in thought. A girl, a university student turns up at his flat with a murder case. Where has she got the information from? Unlikely that she had found it out herself, she was committed to her work. She must have been _given_ it. A name popped into his head suddenly and he looked at John, who was completely unaware. Irene Adler was on thin ground. One wrong move and she'd be dead._  
_

"Then who? No, wait, you've probably already got it worked out."

"I've got an idea of who it might be."

**Can you see I suck at mysteries. I think I'm better at characterising that making up a believable plot. Oh yes, I've also changed the name of the story because I thought the previous was a bit rubbish! I think there's only going to be a few chapters more of this story. I haven't had a huge amount of reviews (but thank you to those who have) so I'm not sure if people are enjoying and I'm having trouble seeing where it will go if I continue to do more. Plus, I'm going to be very busy once college starts again in a few weeks so I will have to focus more on my A-levels than this.**


	6. Chapter 6

Irene had not seen Sherlock Holmes, nor Jim Moriarty, for five days now. She had ignored the many texts telling her to go to Baker Street or to Russell Square Gardens, though she was constantly thinking about both men. In an effort to stop thinking about either of them, she had turned off her phone to have some peace and quiet and also to think about how she had got into this mess in the first place. She knew she should have forgotten about Moriarty weeks and weeks ago, aware that she was being used to get to other people just because he was bored. She knew how she felt; she felt like Molly in the hospital, being used just to get to bodies (she shuddered. Who on earth would do that? Sherlock Holmes was her reply). It wouldn't be long before Moriarty would come to get her again, just like the time before, but she was not scared. She could see it coming from a mile away.

Her room in the University Halls was small, but perfect for her needs. A bed, a table, a laptop. Everything she needed to work. It was cluttered, but not messy like 221b Baker Street, and full of items she had collected from holidays and gifts from her family. It was dark outside and getting late. Irene would normally soon be retiring but she had an essay to complete for a few days and she wanted it completed. The laptop was on, the screen full of notes for her next essay and, the door was wide open.

Wait. The door shouldn't be open. She had locked it.

She turned around. A figure stood before her and she gasped. At first, she would have thought it to be Jim, but it was too tall, and the long coat gave it away.

"How the hell did you get in here?" She exasperated, staring up at the intruder.

"I thought I'd come and see how you were. You didn't answer my texts." Sherlock Holmes said.

"You need to have a code to get into the University Halls," Irene replied haughtily, eyes narrowed.

"Didn't take me long to work it out. It's a bit obvious, don't you think?" She didn't reply and instead stood there, arms folded across her body. "Why did you not return my texts, Adler?" He pressed.

"I've been busy, and my phone is dead. Sorry."

"No, it isn't. It's just recently been charged," He noted the charger still plugged in the socket, "I need you to come to Baker Street with me. There's some things we need to do."

"Can it not wait?"

"No, not really. Time is of the essence, Adler." He wandered out of the room leaving her to follow behind him.

Baker Street was not far from Gower Street, the street of the University and the Halls, only a few minutes in a taxi - unless it was during rush hour. It was approaching ten o'clock now and Irene could feel herself almost falling asleep, but it was the sound of the creaky taxi engine that kept her from nodding off. In no time they had arrived and were sitting in the living room of Holmes' flat. Irene fiddled with her fingers and then a button on her coat. Anyone could tell she was nervous and there was no way of denying it.

"John not here?" She asked in a casual tone, not that her body language showed it...

Sherlock ignored her, "My USB stick went missing the other day."

"Oh, really? Have you tried just looking?" It didn't take her long to work out that he would be too lazy to do the obvious, "It's probably under the piles of documents over there."

"Been looking then? They don't look much like documents. They could be anything. Blank pieces of paper, instructions... Shall I go on?" She bit her lip and said nothing.

"Holmes, I have a dissertation due in a few days. I'm very busy, so I'd appreciate it if you'd just let me go back. Maybe I'll see you around another time when you've found your USB stick and are in a better mood?"

"If I was like any other normal human being, Adler, I would leave you to it. But I'm not," Irene glared at him – she had had some inclination that he wouldn't give up that easily, "You don't have my USB stick, do you?"

Irene shook her head. She wasn't lying, technically, though she had stolen it. But she was not the one who had it.

"Tell me where he is?"

"He?" She laughed loudly, hiding her insecurity as best as possible. He knew, she knew that, "Are you naming personal possessions? If you are, you're really so much stranger than how I first perceived you."

"You know who I mean, Adler." He only had to say the name and she would give in, "Moriarty."

"I don't know where he is." Irene replied truthfully, while Sherlock paced around the room impatiently. Jim had never told her where he lived, or even which part of London – if it was London, that is. He could be anywhere.

"Do you have his number?" Sherlock asked in a low voice, generally pleased that he was getting somewhere with the woman. He sat next to her on the sofa; her phone had already made it's way into his hands. "How did you meet him?"

"I was at a pub a few months ago," He gave her a strange look and she explained, "My friends wanted me to get out more. I had drunk a little too much alcohol and he had introduced himself to me. He was nice," Sherlock looked away sourly. Irene added, "Nice at the time. We talked, and I got to know him. I felt like the happiest person alive. It's not often a man would talk to me. I felt like I was in love, though now I know I was just deluded. And then, one day, he told me what he was doing. That he had had enough and he didn't love me at all. He told me what he did, how he was a 'consulting criminal'; killing off people for others. I was disgusted and I told him to leave me alone, not that he did. He bullied me into helping him; spying on people to gather information."

She looked at Sherlock and he sighed, running his hands through his hair. He did not like what he was hearing, but Irene carried on regardless.

"He paid me, Holmes! I couldn't get out of it!"

"Did it not cross your mind, Adler, to tell someone, the police, anyone?" He hated how he was sounding. It was out of character for him, but there was something inside him telling he had to look after her.

"He told me if I ever said anything, he'd hurt me. And I believed he would." She stopped. He didn't even press her to continue. Moriarty would kill her, it was as simple as that. Sherlock stood up, walked over to the window and blankly stared out. He had nothing to say.

"You shouldn't have even met him."

"I can't help who I meet, Holmes! I was drunk! It didn't mean anything at the time!" Her voice was raising steadily, almost shouting now. Mrs Hudson would soon come up to inquire over the noise. "Yes, I was being stupid - ridiculously stupid."

"And I suppose it hadn't crossed your mind that he was using you to get to me." He gritted his teeth; he couldn't even look at her.

"Oh, come on, Holmes, I didn't even know you! Stop being so silly!"

"Me, being silly? And I thought you were intelligent! God, what goes through people's silly little brains? I'm not the one who's going to get killed!" Sherlock's voice was raising along with hers.

"_What?_"

"He's going to kill you." His voice softened and he looked at her for the first time in what had seemed was years.

"You don't know that. You don't know him."

"I know him well enough. Irene," It was the first time he'd called her by her first name since they met, "He's manipulating you and when he's finished with you, he'll destroy you. You can see it, you just don't want to admit it." He rifled through a pile of newspaper articles, handing her one she had seen the first time she came to the flat about the student, brutally murdered by a masked killer.

"Why wouldn't I admit it?"

"Because you don't want anyone, or yourself, to know that you're vulnerable."

"Oh, shut up, Holmes. You're so - "

"Everyone's vulnerable. There's nothing wrong with it." He almost laughed at how stupid he sounded. Great, she was making him act like a normal person. He _despised_ it.

Irene laughed hysterically, "Even the Great Sherlock Holmes? I don't think so." She had only known him five days, but she knew him too well. There was a long, uneasy silence which was broken when the man stormed out of the door, down the flight of stairs. He met Mrs Hudson on the way down.

"Mrs Hudson, tell Irene she can use my room tonight - she'll be needing it. I won't be back until morning, at least."

"Oh, another murder, Sherlock?" She asked, delighted. But he was not listening.

"Yes, something like that."

**Only a few chapters left now! It's a shame, but I do only have a few days left of my holiday and then I have to get back into the working habit. Maybe I'll do a follow up when I have free time...**


	7. Chapter 7

**Just a little chapter before I post the last 2 or 3 chapters. I might not post another one for a day or so as I'm pretty busy this weekend, but it will get finished sometime this week! **

Sherlock's room was small and looked untouched. Compared to the previous room, there was no clutter, no decoration (if you called knives and skulls decoration, that is) just the necessities; a bed and a wardrobe. Irene looked around but did not take in her surroundings much. She was busier thinking about where he could've got to and the stupid mess he'd get into with Moriarty. Mrs Hudson broke her contemplation.

"I've phoned John, he'll be back soon. His girlfriend, Sarah, will lend you some nightclothes." Irene nodded and Mrs Hudson wished her a goodnight, though she knew it was far from it.

John didn't take long to arrive at Baker Street, though he found Irene asleep on the bed. She woke up when she heard his footsteps in the room.

"Here. Sarah said they might be a bit big for you, but they'll do." He placed a carrier bag of clothes on the bed. Irene noticed that he didn't look happy with her.

"I don't need them. D'you have a phone?" John nodded and chucked the phone into her waiting hands. She skimmed through the contact list until she found Sherlock's number and rang, waiting impatiently.

No answer. She huffed.

"Can you track his phone?"

"No. I don't think so. Have you tried texting? He doesn't like talking on the phone." Irene shook her head and fumbled around with the buttons, typing out a messy text.

_Where are you?_

_Irene._

"Tell me if he replies." She threw the phone to John and began to bite her nails nervously.

He ignored her, "What did you do, Irene?"

She took a deep breath and slowly started to recollect the story to him. He listened intently, but neither looked each other in the eye. It was a while before anyone talked again.

"How about you get some sleep and I'll wake you if I here anything from him?" He asked, unsure of what her answer would be.

"Okay." Irene replied, though she had no intention of sleeping.

The sound of the phone made them both jump out of their skin. It was a text.

"What does it say?" She almost jumped up at John, who had already read the message, "Come on, read it out."

She snatched the phone off him impatiently; he didn't struggle.

_Two men found shouting at each other about top secret information, murder and a girl in Russell Sqr Gdns. Not anything to do with you, is it? Sending back-up now._

_Lestrade_

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter," He replied quickly, getting up to leave the room, "I need to go. Before he does something stupid." The two of them raced out to the main room, "I'll be back later."

"Well, I'm going too."

"Oh no you're not." He said, pulling on his coat, "Don't you think you've caused enough trouble, Irene? He'll get himself killed because you were so immature as to agreeing to spy for Moriarty. Just, stay here. I'll get Mrs Hudson to see to you."

He left before she could even argue.

She paced the room, occasionally looking out the window for any sign of them. What had she done? John was right, she _was_ immature. Immature and stupid. She thought about what life would be like if she had never met any of them. Boring. Quiet. _Unnecessary. _But she liked that. Too late now, she thought.

Without thinking, she grabbed her coat and made her way for the stairs. The landlady stopped her in her tracks.

"John said you weren't supposed to leave, Miss Adler." Irene gritted her teeth. Idiot of a man, she thought. She moved past the woman.

"It's urgent, sorry."

"Well, I was just about to bring you some tea and biscuits, dear." She said to Irene who again apologised profusely.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I really, _really_ need to be going. Maybe when I get back though?" _If_ I get back, she thought.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry about the delay. I was busy all weekend and yesterday, plus suffering from a bit of writers block so haven't been the most motivated person to write. But, here it is, the penultimate chapter...**

The gardens in Russell Square were pitch black. The lampposts were switched off, despite the darkness of the night and nearby houses were in shadowed by the trees. A few occasional cars and taxis pulled past, but none illuminated the scene. Sherlock looked around, not seeing much until his eyes found a body lying, unmoving on the ground before him.

He walked up, noticing the long, auburn hair similar to Irene's. It couldn't be…

"Irene?" His feet moved quicker as approached the body and turned it to face him. He held his breath but it was not her. One sigh of relief was enough. The body was stone cold.

"Moriarty?" Sherlock shouted, knowing he was there. A figure stepped out behind him, and, hearing the footsteps approach, he turned to face him.

"My favourite person. Hello, Sherlock. What can I do for you today? Have you come to see my new mystery?" He smiled, gesturing to the body, "How's Irene? I imagine you've spoke to her."

"I've come for the memory stick, Moriarty," Sherlock sneered, "And don't even mention her name."

"Oh," He chuckled, "I was hoping you might get fond of the girl. Then it would be so much more fun to kill her, knowing you'd be sad. Maybe she'll be next."

Sherlock said nothing, but the look in his eyes told Moriarty to back off. Moriarty pulled the USB stick out of his pocket.

"Ah, is this what you're after, Sherlock?" He said, eyes shining though darkness surrounded them, "I found it rather interesting."

"Give it to me," The other spat through gritted teeth, his hand outstretched.

"And where would be the fun in that?"

They both fell quiet until the villain spoke again, his tone determined.

"You'll have to give me something in return. I'm not giving up that easily."

"What do you want?" Sherlock knew what was coming. Moriarty didn't even have to say it.

"The girl, please."

"No."

"Oh, Sherlock, you're not thinking things through properly. What good is she to you? She's no benefit to you or I. I'll just get rid of her just like I did to that girl over there. It'll be quick and simple." He grinned and Sherlock turned away in disgust.

"Stop talking about her like she's an animal, Moriarty."

"Don't you like it? What a shame. I _will _get her."

"Not over my dead body." Came the answer. Sherlock's hand was still out, ready to receive the USB stick.

Moriarty laughed mockingly, "Aw, is it love, Sherlock? Shame, thought you were always meant for me."

"Oh, be quiet," Sherlock snarled, "The stick."

"I'm not giving it to you just like that. Hmm, maybe you should try and earn it. How about another good murder for you to solve? Oh, I like those."

"People shouldn't die just for your personal enjoyment."

"Why not?" He sounded like a child deprived of his toys, "Oh," he laughed, "I have a good idea. You'll love it! A good old murder mystery involving our dear girl, Irene. If you work out how she got killed, you'll get the memory stick. What're you going to do now, Sherlock? Beg for her life? I'd like to see you try."

"I don't even know why you do it."

"Because I'm _bored_!" Moriarty yelled, "I'm like you, Sherlock. We both get bored sometimes and we have to do something to cure our boredom. I murder people, you solve the murders. It's as simple as that."

Sherlock turned around, hearing footsteps. Moriarty had already seen the visitor and he waved in a patronising manner, despite the gun in John's hand.

"Hello, John. Come to join us, have you?"

"Step away from Sherlock, Moriarty." The villain did nothing, just stood there and smiled patronisingly.

"Ooh, a gun, scary!"

"The police are on their way. They'll stop you and arrest you."

"The police can't harm me." Came the reply. John took another step forward, the gun steadily aimed at Moriarty's head.

"Oh, I'll make sure of it."

"Where's Irene, John?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the two.

"Don't worry, she's safe."

"Back at the flat, I expect," Moriarty grinned.

"You won't get to her." Sherlock spat.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that." He took another step towards them, John at the ready with his handgun.

"I'll shoot."

Moriarty put up both hands in surrender, but mockingly. The sound of sirens and blue flashing lights were in the distance, less than a minute away now but there was no fear on his face, just delight.

"Here, catch. I'm sure we'll be meeting again soon, Sherlock. I don't feel like killing you off tonight. I'll wait a little while." Moriarty threw the stick into Sherlock's waiting hands. He turned and fled into the darkness as the police cars and ambulances pulled up.

"Coward." Sherlock muttered grimly as John hid the gun in his back pocket. He looked at the USB stick in his hands. Same one, there was no doubt about it. He tucked it into his left coat pocket along with Irene's phone - he'd give it to her later maybe. Lestrade was approaching now, looking rather annoyed with the pair.

"What's been going on? I've heard reports of people talking about murder."

"Over there," Sherlock pointed at the dead body. He shuddered. It looked just like _her_ from where they were standing.

"I've only just arrived," John replied innocently, "Moriarty."

Lestrade ran his hands over his face. It was too late for questioning them now, "My office. Tomorrow morning. Apart from the body, no one got hurt, did they?" He wasn't concerned, he just wanted to get back home as quickly as possible.

"No," Came his answer, and he nodded and walked off to talk to his team.

"We need to get back to the flat. He could've gone there." John said, though he wasn't particularly worried for Irene. He hadn't taken to her as much as Sherlock, but he felt obliged to try and care a little.

* * *

Irene got onto the first bus she could find to carry her in the direction of Russell Square. A Taxi would cost to much and walking too long, so the bus was the only way. She sat agitated on the journey, looking around her and tapping her fingers on her lap impatiently. It was dark outside so it was hard to judge where she was, though she knew the bus was heading to Euston Road.

When the bus stopped - after what had seemed like hours - Irene jumped off. She started for the road south, which would eventually lead her to Russell Square. The gardens there were fairly large, but she was positive that she could find them easily.

Russell Square was fast approaching. She was breathing hard and she was worn out, but she was determined to find them and to stop them. It was pitch black, some kind of power cut was happening, but she could hear them and they were close. In the distance she could hear police sirens and the familiar flashing lights were nearing her, illuminating the gardens in blue.

The men had ceased talking now and it was almost calm, except for the police decked out in their usual fluorescent green overcoats rushing past. Irene stepped over to the police car, there was no one in there, but there was police uniform there. She had a sudden thought, grabbed the uniform and stepped into the shadows where she could not be recognised.

It made her almost unrecognisable. The jacket was far too large for her but it would suffice for a few minutes. The police hat formed a shadow over her face, disguising her features well.

When she got to the scene, Moriarty was no longer there. She cursed discreetly, but could see her new friends standing, talking to each other. The memory stick was in Sherlock's hands and she watched carefully as he tucked it into his coat pocket. An inspector was talking to them but he soon disappeared toward the blue lights. She was close enough to overhear them now.

"We need to get back to the flat. He could've gone there," She heard John say, though he didn't sound particularly interested. She edged closer. If she wasn't dressed head to toe in uniform, she would instantly be recognisable to the two men, but by keeping her head down, it was impossible. They hadn't spotted her, to her relief, even as she brushed past Sherlock, taking the USB stick and her phone, placing them both into her own pocket.

She looked back, meeting the eyes of the detective; the cold, grey eyes, and left.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes connected for a second, just a brief second, with Irene's. He didn't need much longer to acknowledge that it was _her_. The large, dark, but tired, eyes gave it away. He put his hand back into the coat pocket and found that the stick was no longer there and neither was her phone. If it had been anyone else brushing past and sneakily taking the items from his pocket, he would've know instantly. Sherlock gave a small laugh at how stupid he was and how brilliant _she_ was.

"Did you see her, John?" He asked, staring after her, but she was soon gone.

"Who?" John looked around, seeing nothing but bright lights, shadows and policemen.

"Oh, no one, I just thought she looked familiar."

"Let's get going."

"There's no rush. Irene's gone." Sherlock said, folding his arms and kicking a stone with his shoe. He smiled to himself. Irene was now just a memory, almost a dream. A good one nevertheless. Five days he had known her and she had _this_ effect on him. Strange. He was almost becoming more like a _normal_ human being.

"How do you know that?" John asked sceptically, checking his watch for the time.

There was a loud bleep coming from Sherlock's other pocket. His phone. He read the text quickly, smiling as he did so.

_See you around, Holmes._

_IA_

"Was that her?" John asked, trying to take a look at the message, but no luck; the phone had already made it's way into Sherlock's pocket again.

"Yes."

"So, where's she gone?"

"Far away from here, I imagine." He smirked.

"Right. Good. Let's get back and you can explain to me why you desperately wanted that USB stick so much."

"Ah, yes, about the stick…" Sherlock trailed off, "I think I might have misplaced it."

"What? You had it just a minute ago," John sighed, exasperated, "In your coat pocket."

"No, it _seems _to have gone."

"So, are you saying that we went through all of that to receive a USB stick which you have just 'lost'."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, but then replied, "Yes."

"Oh, well that's just brilliant, isn't it?" His friend said sarcastically, heading towards the main road. He had had enough for the day. There was no use in arguing.

**Well, that was the second to last chapter. Hope you enjoyed it. I quite liked writing this chapter - was quite fun. I'll be tying up loose ends in the next chapter, hopefully. **


	9. Chapter 9

The last time Sherlock Holmes had met Irene Adler, was in an old, rundown café in Soho. He had sent her a text a few months after their last meeting in Russell Square to ask how she was and if she wanted to meet up one afternoon when he was free. She accepted and the date was set. It was late afternoon, rush hour, and the streets were teeming with commuters hurrying to get back home. Surprisingly, the café was almost deserted, except for the two of them and a few workers eating their dinner. Irene sat opposite Sherlock, sipping her coffee and stabbing at her piece of chocolate cake while he sat watching intently.

Sherlock was the first to speak. They had not properly exchanged conversation, apart from greetings, and he thought the situation a little awkward. "So, Irene, everything okay with you?"

"Oh, I'm Irene now? I always thought you called me _Adler_," He ignored her comment and she continued, "I moved. Away from here, away from London, away from _him_. I dropped out of university, went to the coast. Fresh air is good for you, you know."

"Whereabouts?" He asked casually as she finished off her slice of cake and wiped her mouth.

"Hastings. It's nice down there, you should come sometime."

"Maybe I will one day," He smiled and she smiled back happily.

"How about you? Any more exciting cases?"

"A couple, I suppose. But none that exciting. I solved a serial murder case up in Cambridge a few weeks ago. That was the best one, I'd say."

"Oh, I saw that on the news. They never mentioned you." She sounded a little sceptical, but she did believe him. Honestly.

"No, they never seem to do that." He concluded, grabbing the menu and reading through, though with no intention of ordering. There was an uncomfortable silence. Neither wanted to say anything, though they had enough to tell.

"I'm sorry I left on a bad-note last time, Holmes," He looked a little confused, so she explained. "The argument. The argument back in your flat." Sherlock remembered the argument, and looked back at it embarrassed. He shifted in his seat awkwardly, grimacing at the words he had said to her. Irene continued, "Well, I suppose that wasn't the last time we saw each other - " She trailed off.

"Oh yes," A smile played of his lips, "The memory stick."

"I'm sorry about that. I was curious, and I was wondering whether you'd notice."

"If it was anyone else I would've."

Irene blushed, "I still have it," She took out of her jacket the stick he had been thinking about for months.

"Have you looked at it? It is ok if you have." He added quickly, after seeing her guilty expression.

"I admit I had a little nose around, but only quickly. I don't even know why I took it, Holmes. I just saw you put it in your pocket and I wondered what was on there. Moriarty took it before I had the chance last time."

"Speaking of _him_…" He drawled. Irene looked away.

"I haven't seen him since. Which is good, seeing as he wants me dead." She muttered, still not keeping eye contact. Irene still scolded herself for the damage she had done, to her, to her life, to other people's life.

"Indeed."

"What about you?" She looked up at him now, taking another sip of her drink, "Have you seen him since?"

"No, unfortunately," Sherlock replied, almost sarcastically, "I think he was more interested in you than me at that moment."

"Mm."

There was another small silence. Only broken when Irene remembered the USB stick in her left hand.

"Oh, your memory stick," Irene handed it to him but he didn't accept it.

"No, thank you, Irene. I've learnt that I don't particularly need it after all. Keep it safe though. I might need it one day." He changed the subject quickly and she tucked it safely in her pocket again, "So, you've dropped out of university?"

"Of course. It wouldn't be safe there anymore."

"Of course," He repeated, "Do you have a job?"

"Currently unemployed. Typical, isn't it? I have had a few odd jobs, I suppose. It gets me a small income but it's by no means a comfortable life."

"You can always come and live - " She cut him off straight away. She knew where the conversation was heading.

"No, Holmes. You know I can't." She wanted to, but practically, she couldn't. It wouldn't be safe for either of them.

"Yes, I suppose you _are_ right." He agreed, nodding his head slowly while still watching her closely.

"Plus," She added after a while, "I don't think John would like it."

"That _is_ true."

"He always seemed a bit distant with me. Oh well, you can't please everyone."

Sherlock's phone buzzed and he took a quick glance at the text. Mycroft. Again. With another case for him. He could wait…

And then he had an idea.

"You're unemployed?"

"Like I said," Irene raised an eyebrow, not sure where the conversation was heading.

"I can get you a job."

"Oh no, you'd probably end up getting me killed or something." Irene chuckled, putting her finished plate and cup to one side.

Sherlock ignored her, taking out a card and sliding it across the table, "My brother, Mycroft's, details. I'll send him a text later, giving you a reference about you."

"A reference? From you?" She smirked, a little disbelieving of the man opposite her.

"Absolutely. Telling him how brilliant you are."

"But I'm not. I'm incredibly stupid and immature." She remembered back to the argument they had had back at his flat a few months ago.

He continued to ignore her, "And he's bound to give you a job. You'll be able to live comfortably. I can," He corrected himself, "_He_ can get you a nice flat in London. I'll - he'll - make sure that you're safe away from Moriarty."

Irene studied the business card for a few moments before asking, "He works for the government?"

"He _is _the government."

She looked at him in surprise, "And you really think he'll give me a job?"

"I'll make sure of it."

"Okay," She said slowly, unsure and a little excited at the prospect of working again. The waitress came over and handed them a bill. Sherlock paid, unhesitant, and stood up.

"Well, Irene, it's been nice to see you again." He smiled.

"And you too." Irene replied, grinning back and giving him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, "Goodnight, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

And after that, she left.

**There. Finito. Done! I hope you enjoyed it if you read it. I could've done better, I could've expanded it, but I just don't have the time at the moment to do so. That's life, I suppose! You never know, I might write a follow up if I ever have any spare time again. Please review!**


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